


But Now You've Sucked Your Lemon Peel Dry

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sex, F/F, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Violence, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 23:25:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12663588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Good night, ladies.  Ladies, good night.





	But Now You've Sucked Your Lemon Peel Dry

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story and the quote in the summary come from the Lou Reed song, Good Night, Ladies. This takes place after the events of "Little Boots".  
> While there's actually very little violence in this story, and none of it occurs within a sexual context, the story still takes place in a violent milieu, where life is cheap and casually discarded, so please use your discretion, Dear Readers.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

What an adventure. And, now, Leslie’s set back down in real life, with the feeling of having been changed, but not having changed at all. Maybe it was all a dream. On the shore of drunkenness, she feels her face smile. Then, she takes the plunge, sinks deeper in, and the shore and all of life are forgotten.  
Cherry calls for her, and she slips off of the barstool, through the crowd. Their faces look like cheap glossy paper masks, shining and flat under the anemic lights, in the swinging drapes of shadows. The fighter will lose the eye if he doesn’t get to the hospital. She tells Cherry. Cherry shrugs, then nods to a couple of men, all the while, her face expressionless. The men take the fighter out of Leslie’s sight, and whatever happens to him after that is the business of another world. This is the one that Leslie inhabits, now.  
Released, she again passes through the crowd. Edward looks at her, as bright and vapid as a comic strip. The man she used to know as Butch Gilzean looks at her, too, a sleeper with his eyes open. None of this is her problem. She drinks. She looks at the fighters. She stitches shallow cuts. She slaps on bandages. She drinks. She assesses fractures. She advises on internal bleeding. When she pronounces a man dead, outside of a clinical setting, unaided by diagnostic equipment or even other professionals, she feels like she’s handed down the will of God. She shakes her head, and tells herself that she’s only shivering because it’s drafty in this place. She goes back to the bar, and drinks so much that she feels swaddled, woolen.  
“Good crowd tonight,” Cherry says. Every night, at closing time, she says some variation on this. She’s eternally buoyant, eternally grateful, to something, it seems, in a way that Leslie can’t understand, and envies all the more for her own lack of comprehension.  
“Good for you,” Leslie mutters.  
“Buy a gal a drink?” Cherry gives her a lopsided smile.  
Leslie rolls her eyes, but feels her lips bend slightly. She pours Cherry a drink. Cherry touches her glass to Leslie’s, empty on the bar. “Salud.”  
The rest of the staff roll themselves up like stage backdrops, and disappear. Then, it’s just her and Cherry. Was there ever a preamble? If there was, Leslie can’t recall. It must happen this way all the time. You keep drinking until an idea presents itself. Then, it goes from being a bad idea to a good idea. Then, it stops being an idea, because you’re already doing it. Leslie’s unsteady on the stool, but Cherry has an arm around her, holding her up. The first kiss is soft, gently seeking. Then just seeking, ripe and splitting, and Leslie hangs onto Cherry, her hands on Cherry’s face, then her arms around Cherry. Leslie’s been on an adventure, an unimaginable voyage, and now, she’s come back. To where all is known and settled, and fits her like a glove. Fumbling, muddled movements, she pushes down the collar of Cherry’s jacket, and kisses her neck. Cherry laughs, a rough rumble, wriggles out of her jacket, and sets it down on the bar. She holds Leslie away from her for a moment, looks at Leslie. Her lipstick’s a smear of red across her mouth, like blood melting into snow. If Leslie shivers, it’s just because it’s late, and she’s drunk.  
“Step into my office,” Cherry says, smiling, almost dreamily.  
“Yes,” Leslie says, but falls against Cherry and kisses her again, one more time, before she has to walk.  
They melt through the room, into Cherry’s office, behind the locked door, onto the couch. She pulls Cherry down on top of her, her hands on Cherry’s back, up under her top. She unhooks Cherry’s bra, and Cherry laughs against her, warm breath puffing onto her cheek, her throat. Cherry leans back on her knees, takes off her top, her bra, tosses them onto her desk.  
“Something about tonight get your motor running, Doc?” Cherry asks, grinning, splitting the red streak across her mouth. “You wouldn’t be the first one to find out that they get a high from it. All that blood in the air forms a mist. It’s like perfume.”  
“Shut up,” Leslie says halfheartedly, crawls her hands up to Cherry’s tits. Feels warmth crawl through and down her as she touches Cherry and Cherry twists against her.  
“Or maybe...” Cherry says, smiling, not grinning, now, smiling like she knows something. Everything. Cherry always knows everything. Leslie knows what’s coming, and hates herself for the hitch in her breath, the rough way she swallows. “Maybe you’re thinking about her.”  
Leslie doesn’t answer. The way she moves her hands down over Cherry’s waist, down to her hips, around to the button of her pants says everything. She’d be stupid to try to hide. So, she’ll put it all out there. Hope that Cherry will be merciful. Early on, she saw Cherry break a dying man’s neck. There’s no mercy in Cherry.  
“She make you hear bells?” Cherry asks, and Leslie pulls down the zipper of her pants, hearing herself breathe, trembling, helpless.  
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous,” Leslie hears herself say. She’s still helpless. She’s still waiting like a wounded creature for the end to come. But she’s hot, and she’s weary, and Cherry may not be merciful, but she’s always willing to take away Leslie’s pain.  
Eventually.  
Cherry leans down and kisses her, moves so that her legs tangle with Leslie’s. “Maybe I am,” she says, her expression soft, amused. She kisses Leslie again, slowly, excruciatingly, makes Leslie arch up into her. She eases Cherry’s pants down over her hips, runs her hands over bare skin.  
“Sit up,” Cherry says, and moves back. Looking down, her face momentarily a humorous parody of studiousness, she unbuttons Leslie’s top, takes it off. Leslie takes off her bra, pulls Cherry toward her again. Kissing Cherry, she spreads her legs, irritably pulls up her skirt, wraps her legs around Cherry. Cherry’s hand is on her breast, then her mouth is there, kissing lavishly, sucking her nipple, her hand moving down. Her mouth is on Leslie’s neck, on Leslie’s mouth. Her hand is between Leslie’s legs, fitting into the curve of her thigh, brushing against the crotch of her panties.  
Breathing heavily, they move apart again. Leslie stands, shakes out of her skirt, takes off her panties. Cherry sits on the couch, and Leslie eases down onto her. She kisses Cherry, Cherry’s hands on the small of her back, her hips, her thighs. She presses her face into Cherry’s neck. Then, the back of the couch as Cherry snakes her hand between her legs. She raises her hips, holds on to the couch. Cherry’s touch is soft. You’d mistake it for care, if you didn’t know better. It’s too soft for that. And Leslie can move however she wants to, make any sound she wants to, but Cherry won’t do it any harder or any more or whatever it is that Leslie needs.  
“Please,” Leslie says, then makes herself pick up her head, and look at Cherry.  
“Say that again,” Cherry says.  
“Please,” Leslie whispers, and kisses Cherry. The kiss is gentle, sweet. Cherry’s killing her.  
“Tell me about your girlfriend, and I might like what I hear.”  
It’d be stupid to blush, at this point. Leslie’s not blushing. It’s late, and she’s drunk, and she just needs to get off. “What do you want to know?” she says in a hard voice, moving her hips. Just so that Cherry understands what she’s here for. That Cherry’s not the only one who’s going to get what she wants.  
But Cherry smiles, sort of tossing her head, like Leslie’s just told her something that she can’t believe but still finds amusing. “You two play Doctor?”  
“What, like us?”  
“Yeah,” Cherry says, with that sweet expression she sometimes has, “like us.”  
“She’s meaner than you are.”  
“You like them mean?”  
“Maybe I do,” Leslie says, trying to move against Cherry’s hand. It just makes Cherry pull away.  
“What did she do for you?”  
“So, you are jealous.”  
Then, Cherry kisses her, knocks the breath out of her. “Yeah. I’m jealous.”  
“We fucked all night.”  
“Yeah.”  
“She made me hear bells.” Leslie smiles.  
“Yeah.”  
“She made me sweat like a bottle of chilled champagne.”  
“That’s good,” Cherry says absently, and starts touching Leslie again in earnest. She moves her finger in slow circles against Leslie’s clit. Now, Leslie can’t be upset anymore, now that she’s so tight that even the promise of relief is a kind of relief.  
“She likes to use her hands,” Leslie says, moving with Cherry. She holds on to the couch again.  
“What else?” Cherry takes away her hand. Leslie cries out. Hates herself for doing it. Knows that she couldn’t have stopped it if she’d tried. Hates herself all the same.  
“Fuck you,” Leslie spits.  
Cherry smiles.  
“Do you want me to tell you that she wasn’t as good as you- because that’s a fucking lie,” Leslie laughs.  
“Very good,” Cherry says, and caresses Leslie’s breast. It feels too fucking good for Leslie to care anymore that this is just a game, and a stupid fucking game, and a stupid fucking game that she can’t win. She just lets Cherry do it, and lets herself feel it, and maybe, she’ll just come like this. That’s good. She feels herself contract wetly, hot and aching.  
“She fucked me with her fingers,” Leslie says, to Cherry, to herself, to nobody in particular, “I came as soon as she was inside of me. I just wanted to taste her. I couldn’t stop. I had to have her. I had to make her come. I’d never been so wet in my life. She kept saying my name...”  
Finally. Finally. Cherry’s decided that she’s suffered enough. Or this is just another false start. Or God damn it. Leslie doesn’t care. She keeps her eyes closed, holding on to the back of the couch, then leaning down and kissing Cherry when she just needs too much. Needs too much to feel Cherry against her. Kisses her and kisses her as Cherry touches her clit, presses the tip of a finger inside of Leslie, presses it in and rubs her roughly. Keeps doing it. Keeps doing it, thank God. Keeps doing it, soft and hard at once, until Leslie comes, her body wringing out her soul like it was sodden. Like it contained all the water in the world.  
Mercy.  
Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!


End file.
